VOLUME 1, CHAPTER IX.ON DANGEROUS GROUND
When Marcus got back to the taxi, he found Paton in the backseat, pulling the "sleeping passenger" routine to perfection. Nothing had moved. Marcus tapped the glass, and the detective headed off to find a quick meal while Marcus took over the watch.
The afternoon dragged. The Scottish sun dipped behind the clouds, and a thick, bone-chilling mist began to swallow the street. When Paton returned, they resumed the grind. Marcus kept up the act, periodically hammering on the engine block with a wrench.
"This rig is finished," he muttered loudly for the benefit of any neighbors peering through curtains. "We're gonna need a tow-truck."
Just as dusk hit—right before the street lamps flickered on to ruin their cover—the door of No. 286 clicked open. Joan and Caborn stepped out. Joan looked sharp in a high-end fur coat and a dark cloche hat, gripping a small leather attaché case.
Marcus instantly ducked his head into the engine bay. As they walked past, McLay shouted something about calling the garage for a lift. The second the couple turned the corner, Paton peeled off, trailing them into the fog like a shadow.
Marcus's brain was already three steps ahead. "Is the house empty?" he whispered. McLay went up and hammered on the door, asking for water for the radiator. No answer. A maid had slipped out the back around three; the coast was clear.
Marcus reached into his pocket for his "emergency kit"—a slim leather case of tools that didn't build things, but opened them. He pulled out a "shim"—a thin strip of high-grade steel. He told McLay to keep his eyes on the street, then dropped down into the basement well. The kitchen window was latched, but Marcus slid the steel blade between the sashes, found the lock, and popped it with a practiced flick.
He was inside in seconds.
He moved through the house like a ghost. The dining room still smelled of the tea the Caborns had just finished. The rest of the house was a tomb—dusty, musty, and neglected. Only two bedrooms looked lived-in. In the back room on the first floor, Marcus found something that stopped him cold.
Four brand-new rubber hot-water bottles lay in the center of the bed, filled to capacity.
Marcus picked one up. It was heavy—far too heavy for water. He carried it to the window, squinting in the dying light.
"H'm," he whispered. "This just got a lot more interesting."
He put it back and tore the room apart. In the bottom of a wardrobe, he found four small tin boxes, painted gray, about the size of a large cigarette pack. Each box had brass electrical terminals on the ends for wiring. They were soldered shut. He couldn't see the contents, but he didn't need to. He knew exactly what he was looking at.
He stood there for a moment, the weight of the situation hitting him. He'd tracked them from Corfu to cover their tracks, and here it was: the "big and serious coup" he'd feared.
He remembered seeing a tube of industrial liquid glue on the dining room mantel. He sprinted downstairs, grabbed it, and headed back up. He unscrewed the brass caps on the electrical terminals. He cut tiny discs of paper, smeared them with the glue, and stuck them to the underside of the caps before screwing them back on. The paper was invisible, but it acted as an insulator. The devices would look fine, but they wouldn't complete a circuit.
He reset the room exactly as he'd found it. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard the scrape of a key in the front door.
He didn't panic. He dove back into the basement, slid through the window, latched it behind him, and vanished into the street.
He found Paton and McLay waiting by the taxi. "They just met up with those foreigners from this morning," Paton reported. "They're moving fast."
"I know," Marcus said, his voice hard. "I've been inside. I found the 'package.' Let's get back to the hotel. I need a secure line."
McLay "fixed" the taxi in record time, drove them back to the North British, and walked away with a tip that would pay his rent for a month.
By 8:00 AM the next morning, Marcus was back in London at the Spanish Mining Corp offices. He'd taken the red-eye and looked like hell—unshaven and running on caffeine.
He went in through the private entrance. His desk was piled with "For Eyes Only" envelopes. He rang the bell for Gordon Howard, the head of the night shift.
"Morning," Marcus snapped. "Is Austin back from Madrid?"
"Yes, sir. He's home sleeping."
"Wake him up. Get him here at eleven. I need Cator, Bellamy, and Superintendent Craig from the Yard. Tell them it's a Level Red. And get me Paris on the scrambler."
"Right away, sir," Howard said. "Also, your man Drew paged. A Miss Temperley is trying to reach you. Says it's urgent."
Marcus groaned, rubbing his temples. "These women never give me a break. Not now. Is Ayrton still in Athens?"
"Yes, sir."
"Recall him. I have a job for him. And get me those Cairo reports the King's Messenger brought in."
Ten minutes later, Marcus was on the phone to Paris. The line hummed with the anti-eavesdrop drone.
"Darville?" a voice asked.
"Armand, my friend," Marcus said. "I'm back. It's bad. I need you on the ten o'clock from Paris. Be at Victoria by five. I need you to lead a specialized hit on a target."
"I'm on my way," Godal replied.
Marcus hung up and went back to the Cairo files. Germany was moving on Egypt, and the Caborns were moving on London. The "Architect" was fighting a war on two fronts.
At 9:30, he headed back to his rooms in Duke Street to change. Drew met him with a concerned look. "Breakfast, sir?"
"Just coffee, Drew. What about Miss Temperley?"
"She's called three times, sir. She's at the Berkeley."
Marcus sighed and picked up the phone. "Edris! My dear, I'm so sorry. I've been halfway across the world. I just got back from Edinburgh an hour ago."
"Marcus!" her voice was relieved but wistful. "I thought you were ghosting me. I'm in town with mom for three days. Are you coming to see me?"
"I want to, Edris. Truly. But I'm leaving for Scotland again tonight. I'm buried."
"Please," she implored. "I need to talk to you about Wengen... and about Lionel. It's important, Marcus. I'll meet you anywhere. Ten minutes?"
Marcus looked at the clock. His conference was at eleven. He had a window late in the afternoon.
"Five o'clock," he said. "Come to my rooms for tea. We can talk in private."
"I'll be there," she said.
Marcus hung up, his face hardening. He had a country to save, a bomb to defuse, and a girl to let down easy. It was going to be a long day.